Amber and I both hail from Sacramento, California. It’s more or less kind of near where both of us grew up, it’s where we first bonded (at a fortuitous Chk Chk Chk show at Harlow’s in 2008), but even though we’ve also spent time together in LA, Baltimore, Atlantic City, New York and Chicago, as far as our friendship is concerned, our hometown is Tucson, Arizona.
There’s nothing that compares to a walk down the middle of a dimly lit Barrio Viejo street, past the glowing windows of familiar pastel adobes and onto the wax hardened earth that leads to the sweet flame flickering of the wishing shrine. My heart swells just to think of it.
As wanderlusters must stay true to their nature, we both eventually moved away, but the desert beckons us back so often that we have a designated Interstate 10 only playlist and favorite rest stops.
When Amber and I traversed that dusty desert highway for what seemed like the hundredth time last October, I was determined and a little nervous. I was showing my first work in over two years at Tucson Fashion Week. I had given up designing in late 2012 and spend the last two years missing it painfully. But here I was and luckily I had my best friend at my side backstage to keep me calm and hydrated as I frantically hand sewed in zippers and tried not to get stepped on.
Actually, had it not been for Amber, I wouldn’t have been there at all. On a balmy April night at The Coronet on our previous visit, she’d called up a good friend and together they talked me into it. I was a little drunk when I agreed, but I kept my word. I’d spent the last two years creatively floundering and wondering what I should make instead of clothes. I struggled with this question for far too long. Answer? Nothing. I should make clothes.
I showed my now retired line, Sapphire Cordial, at the very first Tucson Fashion Week in 2010, so it was only appropriate that I let the warmth of my desert city ease me back into the world I love, under a new nom de plume, Yearling. An animal in its second year.
May I present “Leilani”, designed by Jamaica Cole, unveiled in Tucson, shot in Sacramento, dedicated to Amber Flynn.
Model Leslie Hoffeditz. Photos by Nicholas Avey. Hair by Deeda Salon. Makeup by Leslie Hoffeditz.
When I first met Ryan, he told me didn’t really understand why anyone bothered with marriage. He didn’t need a party or a piece of paperwork to keep him loyal to the woman he loves. And he wanted me to feel “free” to leave or stay. I agreed wholeheartedly, but secretly I wanted to belong to his beautiful, beautiful
In our first year, there was bliss. But there were also tragedies, insomnia, insecurity, habits and complexes gnashing like dull knives. We reinvented the art of the pout. There were moments of ecstatic, twitterpated wonder intermixed with anxiety attacks and emotional shut-downs. But we just kept trying.
It takes time to figure things out.
And goddamnit, we got better at it. We forgave, we supported, we encouraged, we understood. We took long lingering baths together even when chaos charged in. Ryan was patient, loyal and forgiving. He loves me dizzy.
One day, Ryan sat me down ceremoniously on a park bench to announce, “You know what? I get it. I do see why people get married.” I smiled, taking it for a sweet romantic musing. But deeper down I knew what he really meant. My strengths are his weaknesses and my weaknesses are his strengths. We are only beginning to understand how best to love each other and marriage is just an official request for the patience required to keep getting better at it.
When he proposed another year later, I was definitely surprised. And after a lot of waffling, we decided to get married at our favorite place. Turns out we weren’t the only ones who thought throwing a wedding for 100+ cityslickers at our “rustic” family farm was just crazy enough to work.
There is no such thing as a DIY wedding. It’s DIO.
Our friends teamed up, drank beer and conquered. They carved our rugged, dusty, spiky, poisonous little farm into a gentle, lush garden with their bare hands. Andrew built a beautiful bench from locally sourced rocks, Casey spread gravel like a mad man, A pregnant Sonja helped babysit and declutter, Angie reorganized bookshelves, Phil worked the shovel and wheelbarrow like a boss. There was heavy lifting, acre after acre of weed whacking and bulldozing, all of us thoroughly dredged in sweat and red dust. To have a friend contribute his sweat and lower back comfort to the cause of your love was incredibly touching.
So if you want to have a lovely wedding on an impossible budget, all you have to do is put in years and years of fierce loyalty to a circle of friends and family who are amazing at everything. Show up to their weddings, their funerals, and especially their moving days. And if your nearest and dearest happen to live and love on a micro brewery/heritage pig farm with an Tolkienesque tree on a rolling hill overlooking a sunset-reflecting lake, you’re in luck.
Leading up to the date, my twin sister Eve and bro-in-law-of-my-dreams Danny (successful behaviorists/ Dragon Hour Farmers / armchair philosophers/parents of the most amazing kid / busiest couple in the land) grew us a 300 lb. sow from a piglet on a diet of organic veggies, raw milk and spent grain. I named her lovingly, Philipa Seymour Hoofman and Ryan fed her her first and final cupcake. Eve took note of my extensive wish list and Danny brewed a keg of pink saîson with a galaxy of stars as the secret ingredient (we named it after the cologne in Grand Budapest Hotel, “L’Air de Panåche”), made perfect playlists, freaking married us, and then went ahead and made sure every detail was perfect (down to personally editing our feature length wedding video – short version soon to come).
Jamaica, my bridesmaid and bestie (as you should very well know by now) weathered all my wildly fluctuating dream dress ideas and whittled them down to the perfect simplicity my heart craved. The pristine tiffany blue silk 1930s slip dress I bought at Desert Vintage was transformed, via $28 worth of vintage lingerie trim, art deco brooches and some meticulous hand-sewing by a love-filled human, into a zephyr of a gown perfect for a 100 degree day féte. Even my veil was vintage – a yard of pre-WWII lemon-hued millinery veiling.
Wearing that dress was like wearing a cool breeze.
My dear friend Lesli of La Curie, parfumier from Tucson with magically impeccable taste, handcrafted our wedding favors – little bottles of a botanical mosquito repellent Mosquito Non-Grata, which smells like heaven, camping and now, our wedding day.
My dad’s hard work was the grandest gesture of fatherly love I have ever seen from him. The man is a machine. He personally transformed the place with his feats of back-hoeing prowess and went about cutifying every last corner of farm. I get a little weepy just thinking about it.
By wedding time, my friends and family and I were all tan and ripped from manual labor, and our love had inspired the creation of a lovely garden, a legit fire pit, an outdoor kitchen with a huge roasting spit, a dance floor underneath a sheltering oak tree, 9 lbs of wedding cheese (Cypress Grove’s iconic Humbolt Fog cheese with a center layer of truffle chèvre) stacked like a 3 layer cake, four different styles of homebrew, and a whole pig butchered, trussed and guarded overnight by five of the very best men in my life. My friend Kelly died my hair and the kids decorated the “cake.”
A wedding can be a poignant occasion to pay homage to those we miss. The pair of star brooches adorning the back of my dress once belonged to my great grandmother, who has returned to the stars. My little brother Nik, who had died of brain cancer 6 months before the wedding, would have been proud to contribute his truck rack to the pork spit. My other brother Dell, my deceased father’s namesake, wore a vintage shirt with my father’s portrait embroidered on the back and walked me down the aisle.
In spite of a water shortage scare, mystery smells, and 100+ degree heat, July 5th 2014 is now a lush memory of friendly cooperation, pleasant surprises, comfortable comedy, creamy sunlight, and revelations of love from bosom friends. Not a cold nerve for miles. For about 6 hours, our disheveled little farm could almost pass for a schmancy winery party with Wes Anderson on the turntables.
There was an old rowboat filled with fairy lights, oddly colored chiffon hanging from trees like spanish moss, and the tables were decorated with sorbet-hued microscopes, vintage cameras, obscure antique books, California poppies, copper dinosaurs and napkins made from clashing vintage fabrics from the 60s.
Amanda and Joel, (Heroes of Hard Labor) our volunteer bartenders, mixed signature cocktails for our guests. “The Moonrise Kingsley” – rosemary, juniper and rose petal infused gin, made by my sister-friend Angie, with homemade grapefruit or raspberry soda made by Sonya, Andy, and Kim. We drank through paper straws resembling birch trunks.
The dance floor turned into a mini Burning Man for awhile there. People were crowd surfing, hoola-hooping. We were mad for love. To us, it was perfection. Absurd perfection.
It only cost us thrice what we hoped it would and as our bank account began to drain low, we fantasized about an easy elopement. But now we understand why people have weddings. Dear friends who would never have met otherwise now feel like one big curated family circle. Where else besides a wedding can you find your high school bestie and your favorite LA neighbor – strangers to each other, mutual support of our relationship their only bond – doing a running-man-off to your favorite William Onyeabar mash-up?
And for one day we are allowed to forget that life is not easy.
That love fades. That there is no happily ever after. That long term relationships require endless patience.
So far it’s true. Our relationship retains similar ratios of infuriating and blissful. I still have to bite my tongue every time Ryan leaves his beard pubes all over the sink, but he still tells me I look pretty even if I woke up on the wrong side of ugly. He kisses me passionately even when I’m wearing blood orange lipstick.
We know there will probably never come a disagreement-free day. But we have promised to keep trying, to stay true and in love, and to “always choose empathy over fairness” (as Ryan wrote in his vows). I accepted Ryan as my husband with unrepentant gusto because he is always learning, always getting really really good at everything he does. He is loyal because he is.
But something definitely feels different since the wedding.
Maybe we trust each other a little more. Maybe we have roles to fill now. Maybe it’s this:
Relationships are never easy, but now ours has its own little clan of believers.
Photos by Isaac Trumbo, Catherine Plein, Will Wells, and Ryan Flynn
Flowers by Rory Barlew
Hair by Aaron Clark
Makeup by Beck Trumbo
Dress from Desert Vintage
Bowtie from Zelma Rose
Ryan’s Walnut Inlay Ring from Tungsten Rings for Men
Kale Salad from Kale Cart
(not quite there yet!)
Continue reading Gratefully Wed: Our Own Little Clan of Believers
Ok, yes. When Halloween decorations start appearing in stores right after the 4th of July and Christmas trees start strutting into malls in September, I am the first girl to start bitching about consumerism and greed…but it’s only October and I’m already dreaming about New Years Eve.
So I’m a hypocrite. Fine. But I have rationalizations!
This could be partially due to the fact that I now live near San Francisco, which has long been THE spot for (new) yearly old friend reunions. Last year I flew up from L.A. December 31st and drove back the next afternoon. Totally worth it.
Also, even though New Years Eve is cursed with never ever living up to expectations, I can’t help but have them. Which is why I always have to buy a new outfit for the occasion.
Incidentally, Proenza Schouler is killing me with inspiration. It took me an hour to peruse their Fall 2013 stuff because I kept digressing into fantasies of crashing a fancy gala with Ferris Bueller-esque panache and somehow ending up in a hot air balloon* floating over the city lights with Mark Ruffalo, Aaron Paul and a late 1970’s Tom Waits all vying for my affections. (Spoiler alert, Tom Waits wins).
Okay, so it’s preeeeetttty unlikely that my New Years 2014 will go as planned, but at least I’d be adequately prepared for it to in one of these numbers:
I accept that making out with a time traveling Tom Waits is a little far fetched. All I really want on New Years is to be surrounded by the ones I love, dancing to good music and eating good food with no feelings of self-doubt or fear, while having a good hair day. And I want to be rich. And artistically fulfilled. And to not have a beer belly.
Good thing I’ve still got three months.
*emphasis on the word “hot”
I started planning my 30th birthday months ago. All of my favorite people from three different cities I’ve lived in were to converge at a hacienda in Puerto Penasco, Sonora. They would meet and mingle and suddenly my disorderly 20’s would merge together into a single golden thread of continuity and harmony.
Well, that plan fell through.
My birthday this year happened to coincide with yet another big move: to Oakland with my boyfriend. It simply wasn’t feasible to travel from LA to Oakland to Mexico and back to Oakland in the same week. And between quitting my job in L.A. early (so as not to inconvenience them? What was I thinking?), and paying a much needed visit to Tucson, I was running out of money faster than you can say ballsupbingo.com.
The fella and I then lined up an Oakland residence unavailable until August 10th, and lo and behold: I was unemployed and homeless on my 30th birthday.
We had set aside just enough to rent a room for the night in the coastal redwoods near Bodega Bay. The place was equipped with a hot tub, and silent, save for the chirping of birds and a babbling creek obscured by bright green foliage fit for a rainforest. We arrived with a basket (okay, a paper bag) full of goodies we’d payed too much for at a fancy market in Petaluma: tortas, chèvre, several salads, a large bottle of Goose Island’s Matilda, an assortment of olives, and a tiny little dutch apple birthday cake, which doubled as an incendiary device when loaded with 30 candles, one to represent each of my different neuroses.
The evening should have been delightful, but unfortunately I’d been feeling off all day. Though I’d woken up that morning to a salmon quiche and coffee in bed in a surprisingly comfortable non-sleazy motel room, from there it was all downhill.
At lunch, not one, but two birds decided to use my good hair day as an outhouse. I’d wanted to show my boyfriend the Musee Mecanique in San Francisco, but the crowds were horrendous and everything was irritating me. I got caught in a feeling-sorry-for-myself feedback loop, which quickly morphed into a why-have-I-accomplished-nothing-in-life-so-far-and-omg-I’m-actually-thirty-years-old loop to go along with the uneasiness in my stomach.
When we arrived at the cabin, I briefly talked myself back to living in the moment. We feasted on the delicacies my sweet boyfriend had splurged on. We discussed our hopes and dreams for this new life in the Bay Area. We soaked in the hot tub, but I couldn’t get comfortable, or out of my own head. I made a half-drunk wish for mental clarity and blew out my fireball of candles, but couldn’t stomach a bite of cake. Exhausted, I dozed off on accident just after 9pm and awoke to an ominous gurgling from within the depths of my stomach.
I proceeded to spend the next six hours vomiting. Happy birthday to me.
Of course I had food poisoning, but I couldn’t help but think that my mental and emotional state had aggravated the issue. I’d had such high hopes for this seemingly arbitrary day. What difference does it make? Why is 30 such a big deal? Why did I feel the desire to try and “make sense”of my twenties anyway? That’s not really a thing you can do.
A quick google showed me that I apparently didn’t hit my quarter-life crisis at 26 like I thought I had, but that the time is now for all things whiny and what-does-it-all-mean-y. Or its a “pre-30 crisis”, which I guess could span four years? Whatever.
I could go into a list of problems and solutions, of “you’re-not-the-only-one”s, but not only is the internet full of those lists, I have an inkling that those lists aren’t helping. In the last thirty years or so, I’ve started to notice that the more I coddle these crises, the more crises I have to coddle.
Sure, I’m 30 and broke and have no job prospects or specialized skills. Sure, I’m socially awkward and sometimes say stupid things and I’m not famous like I thought I was going to be when I was 11 years old, and two birds shit on my head and I puked a bunch on my birthday. But I just moved into an awesome house with someone I love who constantly goes out of his way to make me happy and I have several friends trying to help me get a job and my mom loves me.
I’m making a decided effort to cheer up. And when my mind wants to interject negatives, I can calm it with a piece of brilliance from the effervescent Amber Mortensen: “Welcome to being human, ya pussy.”
To be honest, I’ve spent the last couple of years feeling rather “meh” about getting dressed. In the past, the thing that has saved me most when I’m running late or feeling lazy is to just wear dresses. They’re simple and fast, and you can’t help but match. But while I love the ease and simplicity of not having to construct an outfit, I sometimes leave the house feeling a little like I didn’t try at all (cuz, well, I didn’t), and the rest of the day looking generic and unmemorable. I recently realized the solution to this while accidentally being forced to meditate in a room full of middle-aged-new-agers. Bear with me here.
The other night I attended a talk and reading given by Natalie Goldberg. If you don’t know: she is the author of several books on the the practice of writing, most notably her 1986 bestseller, Writing Down the Bones. My mom had the book and lent it to me at a pivotal point in my adolescence (which, wow, could have been literally any moment, I realized the second I typed those words).
To be honest, I didn’t remember much of Goldberg’s philosophy. I was informed by my friend Jessica on the drive over that the event was to be hosted at a Santa Monica mindfulness/yoga/meditation center. We predicted that there would be very few men present.
“I bet if there are any, they will be in their early 50’s, and have that permanent 5 o’clock shadow that manages to somehow look clean-cut.”
“And their hair will be in perfect shaggy waves that appear just-careless-enough to make you wonder how long they spent in front of a mirror.”
“But they are mostly humble and speak in soft, yet deep voices.”
“And wear cashmere sweaters.”
“And paisley scarves that still manage to look masculine.”
“These men are fascinating contradictions!”
“They are riddles wrapped in enigmas!”
Turns out we totally called it, excepting the prominent prayer beads we failed to mention.
A gong or something comparable sounded and a woman introduced Natalie Goldberg as her dharma sister or something and Jess and I, whispering, made another prediction that because our snarky sarcasm was exuding so thickly from our pores, we had maybe ten minutes before the entire room would be glaring at us. We would likely be asked to leave within the hour.
Then Natalie began to speak. Her instant charm made my judgmental mind quiet down and I reminded myself that I had payed to come here. This wasn’t some wealthy hippie school assembly I’d been forced to attend.
(Don’t worry, you guys. This post isn’t going to turn into “how I stopped being a sarcastic jerkface”. That is never going to happen. If I didn’t have my snide inner monologue, I wouldn’t have anything.)
Natalie spoke for a while, told stories, read from her latest book. She had us sit in silence, stare at our shoes, and focus on our breath for ten minutes. Twice. Which, as earlier, turned out to be actually quite lovely.
But the highlight of the night for me was two excerpts she read from William Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom!.
The first was this:
“There was a wisteria vine blooming for the second time that summer on a wooden trellis before one window, into which sparrows came now and then in random gusts, making a dry vivid dusty sound before going away”
She read the passage slowly, enunciating each word in her soothing mama hen voice. She noted that the words offered just enough detail. We have a picture of this scene, a description of the sound. But Faulkner was apparently not satisfied, for in the very next paragraph, he says it again, getting more specific, more intimate:
“There would be the dim coffin-smelling gloom, sweet and oversweet with the twice-bloomed wisteria against the outer wall by the savage quiet September sun, impacted distilled and hyperdistilled, into which came now and then the loud cloudy flutter of the sparrows like a flat limber stick whipped by an idle boy”
My god. So good. She read this apparent re-write and I had an almost physical reaction to the words. I had to remind myself to breathe. So much detail packed into a seemingly simple scene. You feel that brutal late sumer heat, you hear those sparrows in a deeper way than if you’d heard them in person. I tried to read Faulkner when I was younger. I found it too dense and barely made it through a third of the book. But if you slow it down and really listen? My god.
Her advice regarding this example was simply, “Get close”. I understood.
After this passage was read, she urged us into our second ten minute session of silence. We were not supposed to be thinking, but I couldn’t stop. How could I apply this philosophy to other areas of my life? Thinking of everything on a grand scale is for kids. This kind of patience and focus must be honed over time. It is a kind of reward for growing older that we usually don’t even realize we’ve received.
I thought of mine and Jessica’s earlier descriptions of the contradictory fashions of imaginary men. How could I focus in closer? The baby softness of the cashmere wool has a strange slickness that brings a nervous perspiration to the fingertips, a pang of heartache to the wrist. The pashmina wraps the man’s velcro throat loosely, its many shades of teardrops embracing each other with joy, bursting into exultant confetti like the sweat beads of reunited lovers in long-awaited afternoon bliss.
That was more like it. Why simply call something by its name? Why take the easy route? Abstraction and simplicity have long been praised in literature, art and fashion, and that’s all good, but why not deviate from that? Let’s embrace details. Let’s say exactly what we want to say. And let’s say it while getting dressed as quickly as possible.
Let’s talk about the infamous little black dress. Simple, classic, versatile. We think of it as a default. A staple. The only descriptors given to the LBD are “little” and “black”. Design wise, this seems stifling, especially to a girl with ever-changing tastes. But I always find that the capacity for great creativity exists within strict parameters. Think about it. There are so many more traits such a dress could possess!
The playful peekaboo of one shoulder, a sporty halter, a prim refined boatneck, a sexy strapless sweetheart. Velvet, silk, chiffon, lace, beaded, ruffled, body-con, flowy, structured, a-line, empire, vintage, modern. The list goes on, and it makes for endless combinations for accessorizing. Details are what make a dress unique. Try these on for size:
Oh, and a LBD doesn’t have to be all black, either. It doesn’t even have to be little. Its all up to you. What kind of dress do you want to wear? It could be a Lady Bird, a Lascivious Buckle, a Lusty Beast, a Leggy Bandit, a Lavender Ballet, a Lengthy Brushstroke, a Limber Butterfly, a Lost in Barcelona.
No matter how you slice it, your clothes speak for you. And I dont want my clothes to say things like “I just worked six days in a row”, or “I’m going to Walmart”. I’d rather they whispered sweet nothings and giggled and sung little songs. I’d rather they bloomed twice and gathered gusts of sparrows.
(photos courtesy of Debenhams)
Spring has arrived, my little giblets! And in the spirit of newness and pastels and chickens, I hereby challenge you to shake things up a little! Make some changes! Go wild! Cross the road! It’s been a while since I made a list of any sort that didn’t start with “make to do list” just so I could cross off something, so how’s about I give this post a little structure to match my new bra?
HERE IS A LIST OF VERY SPECIFIC CHANGES I HAVE RECENTLY MADE THAT YOU COULD ALSO POTENTIALLY MAKE:
1.) Change your look based on an old photo of an awesome genius.
After two years of obsessive chopping, my hair has finally grown long enough to channel the side-parted chin length curled brilliance of Connie Converse, who, lets face it, I probably was in a past life. If you don’t know who Connie Converse was (is?), first listen to this, then melt, and then spend hours scouring the internet for clues about her disappearance. Her sad and lovely story has inspired me to no end. I’ve never loved 1950’s silhouettes and horn rimmed glasses and mystery so much. For god’s sake, just look at her! What a babe!
2.) Change your built-in face frames.
In accordance with the self-imposed directive above, I have also grown out my bangs, bangs which I have worn at varying lengths for the last 10 years. My facial structure has always seemed sharp to me, which nicely compliments the daggers I’m always shooting from my eyes, but I’ve usually balanced it with the softness of a little fringe. Now that my perfect forehead is exposed, I look pretty intense. Don’t get me wrong, I am huge a fan of this. But on those days I want to exist in the realm of soft focus Easter romance, I simply leave my eyebrows alone, instead of coloring them in like Brooke Shields as a Bert from Sesame Street for Halloween like I usually do. With my eyebrows subtle and blondish, I seriously look like a completely different girl. Never color yours? Try it out. I actually like to go back and forth between the Whoopi Goldberg and the Martin Scorsese. Keeps people on their toes.
3.) Change your occupation.
Yep, I just did this too. Not necessarily an option for moms or you know, ‘career’ types, but for wanderlusty girls in their very late twenties who have not only dabbled in various fields, but also worked many types of jobs, it’s definitely doable. If you don’t like what you’re doing, you’re bored, or you aren’t making what you’re worth, shine up that resume! See what’s out there! It also doesn’t hurt to have a contact on the inside. I just got hired as a server at one of the most popular restaurants in Echo Park with very little serving experience by simply blackmailing one of the mangers for several months! Now I get to serve Ryan Gosling deep dish pizza by candlelight and I get to wear pretty dresses to work instead of a t-shirt, apron and baseball cap (don’t ask, please). Not only that, but I am finally making an adult wage! I can afford to wear comfy Clarks to work, so I don’t have to limp home afterward.
4.) Change out your zombie eyes.
So you like your job and style and you are perfectly happy with your beauty routine? What about your soul? I don’t mean is it clean and heaven-destined or any of that shit. What I want to know is, is it hungry? What have you been feeding it? Hours of facebook? The Bachelor? BRAINS? What are you doing in your free time? I’m lucky to have recently moved into a house with two amazing ladies and a huge backyard, where I drink my morning coffee and sunbathe and read actual books sometimes. It’s so tempting to want to zone out after a long day of serving Ryan Gosling pizza, but closing your laptop after three hours and not remembering a single thing you just read is soul-sucking. The internet is a glorious thing, but just do yourself a favor and pretend it’s the 80’s once in a while. It’s the 80’s and there’s nothing on TV and why would you want to be inside on a sunny day like this anyway? Also, um, you’re an adult! Remember back when you weren’t an adult and you were like, “oh man, one day when I’m grown up I’m gonna explore Brazil!” or, “One day, I’m gonna buy enough gummi bears to fill my room all the way to the ceiling and carve tunnels through them and live like that!”
You can seriously do anything you want as long as your landlord doesn’t find out. Also, you know what’s even more fun than zoning out the internet? Drinking.
5.) Change your definition of ‘self-control’.
So I took a non-religious vow to give up meat for Lent. Why? Partly because I have had access to free hot dogs for the last 4 months (doesn’t matter why, don’t worry about it) and was feeling sluggish and beef-witted, partly because my roommates are vegan and I don’t have my own cookware, and partly because I wanted to practice some self-control. I haven’t had the best self-control in the past, but saying “I couldn’t help myself” is such a cop-out.
“I ate your entire birthday cake. Sorry, I had to. I have, like, absolutely no self control.”
“Oh, I know promised I’d help you move, but a friend called at the last minute and asked me to drink Mimosas with her all day and I just couldn’t say no because it sounded like way more fun. Sorry! What else could I doooo?”
Looking back on some bad past decisions can make you see them as just that: decisions. Take responsibility for them. I decided to not practice self-control by eating hot dogs and tater-tots nearly every day for four months, and all it got me was bloated and lethargic. A month and minus five pounds later, I feel like a million (well, maybe 250 thousand) bucks! And what feels even better is the pride that comes with sticking to your guns! Great job! Now you can gloat instead of bloat, guilt free!
6.) Change your mode of communication with that babe in the mirror.
I’ve been making a serious effort lately to look inward. Okay, maybe ‘lately’ isn’t really accurate. It’s more of an every day of my life thing. Constant Psychological Self-Diagnosis is literally my middle name. Yes, literally. And while self-diagnosis isn’t necessarily the best method for physical issues (I decided I was allergic to gluten and have been depriving myself of all sorts of things for the last 8 months-turns out it’s just an allergy to baker’s yeast and I could have been eating burritos this WHOLE TIME), it makes a lot of sense to look within for answers in regards to your own psyche. Who on Earth knows you better than you? Has something been bothering you? Try and figure out why. Have you been making strange, irrational decisions and eating potting soil? There must be a reason. What are you feeling when you open that bag of peat moss and aged compost? Loss? Hope? The best way I’ve found to sort through these dirty feelings is journaling. Throw back a few brewskis and start journaling. I’m actually serious. Talk to yourself like you’re drunkenly rambling to an old friend whom you can trust with any secret, because that’s exactly who you are. You’ve always been there for you, even if you and yourself weren’t on speaking terms. Spend some time getting reacquainted with your best friend since birth and don’t just talk. Listen to what they have to contribute to the friendship.
7.) Change your stress level.
Last but not least, chill the fuck out. I know you know this, but stress is not your friend. It will not help you make good decisions or achieve quality results. It will not get you to work on time. It will not keep your friend who you were supposed to help move from finding out that the “appointment” you had was to drink poolside mimosas all day with that girl she doesn’t like who you swear you aren’t friends with anymore. Avoid potential stressors by leaving for work early and not making bad friend moves in the first place, Jamaica. You won’t have to be hard on yourself if you act like an adult.
7a.) On that note, don’t worry so much. Trust that your hunky boyfriend is an adult as well, and is not going to get stranded on his hiking trip with no food, nor is he going to fall to his death while ascending Mount Horrible (I’m not even remotely kidding. It is absolutely called that).
Make “To Do” List
Oh how I wish the second half of this post’s title was “Why I Don’t Shop at Forever 21”. But I can’t write that yet. The earrings I’m wearing right now were purchased from the Christian sweatshop giant. So were my jeans.
I am well aware that Forever 21 and other throw-away fashion dynasties are not paying their workers enough, that cheap labor goes hand in hand with cheap fabrics and poor construction, that they steal their designs from others, and preach with their bright yellow “LOOK AT ME I AM A CONSUMER” plastic bags. And yet, I still find myself wandering in semi-regularly, and often wandering out with some mass-produced somehow already cliché thin-as-a-tissue article of clothing I will only wear a few times before it either rips or bores me because I’ve seen a version of it on sixteen other girls in one day. My point is, I know better. I’m embarrassed that I do it. I beg them not to bag my purchase and instead surreptitiously stuff it into my purse, which I also purchased at Forever 21.
But then I’ll get compliments when I wear these items, which also shames me to no end. I admit my folly in an Eeyore voice with my head hung low, unintentionally advertising for them, which makes me feel even worse. One would think that after all of this remorse, I would have enough self control to stop shopping there. So why do I keep going back?
Well, I’m poor as shit and I want to look cute.
Always the first excuse. I live in Los Angeles. Everything is expensive here, and though some are just fine with riding the bus to the laundromat in sweatpants and holey socks, I am not one of those people.
And I know I could buy used clothing. Thrifting has been in my blood since I was a below the poverty-level 6th grader. But back then, I’d drop $20 for several Grocery Outlet bags full of awesome 70’s blouses, flowing maxi skirts, and kooky wooden parrot necklaces. These days, the only “vintage” stuff you can find at Goodwill (at least in LA) is from the mid-90’s and almost as expensive as it was when it was new. And sorting through the mounds of stained, synthetic, cargo-pocketed nightmares for that one gem you just know is in there somewhere is exhausting and time consuming.
Excuses, excuses, right? I could make excuses all day. But being broke does not a saint make. Sure, I’m broke. Most of us are. But buying “affordable” new clothes is such a waste of money in the long run. Not only are these purchases physically not going to stand the test of time, Forever 21 and its competitors release so many new collections a year that by the time their cutesy 21 day return policy runs out, your adorable new jacket is already “out of style”.
I could also go on a diatribe about how even the name of the company is unsettling, how the focus on eternal-just-of-drinking-age youth is enforcing that “little girl in the form of a woman” stereotype I so despise, dismissing the idea that there is any point to life if you aren’t young and attractive, but I don’t want to get angry. Again, WHY do we (I) keep going back?
We (I) forget.
It’s the first warm, sunny day of spring. You weren’t prepared for the weather, since you left home early this morning. Now you’re off work, which happens to be right next to the mall. You have a date later and the thought of bare legs on a balmy beachy afternoon with your lover sounds too divine to deny. You could go home to change, but there are at least 150 different brand new dresses in one store 30 feet from you that could be yours right now in exchange for the meager tips in your pocket. And even if thoughts of sweatshop labor and copyright infringement pop in to your head, hey, its only one dress. And three necklaces. And four pairs of tights. There are so many adorable items at your fingertips (that someone else designed first and that were sewn by workers making less than minimum wage)! And this dress is only $19.95! And this is the last time you’ll ever shop here. You swear.
Every little bit adds up. And if you’re like me and you impulse buy when you have a spare few bucks, you end up with a closet full of mass-produced junk.
If only I put that petty cash away, I could afford to buy quality clothing. I’m not talking about overpriced just-because-its-designer items, but a few well made trend-proof pieces that will last. Jeans, versatile dresses, jackets. Sure, they’re a little pricier, but that’s because the company who made them thought enough of their employees to pay them a humane wage.
Buy quality staples, and if you’re craving seasonal pieces and good deals, don’t lazily duck into the mall. Shop like you mean it. Take the day and drive out to estate sales, where all the awesome vintage shit is in pristine condition. Or hit up thrift stores in weird little mountain towns, where they haven’t been picked over and the dresses are only six bucks. If you must stay in the city, visit buy-sell-trade places, where everything is still cheaper than at the mall, but the mountains of junk sorting has been done for you and you’re still recycling!
I am making a resolution to never buy from Forever 21 again. And if you’re reading this, I hope you’ll join me. Consider it spring cleaning for your conscience.
Even though the number of ethical reasons for making this stand is out of the ballpark, the main reason I’m making it is that I don’t want to be a cookie-cutter American Millennial. In high school, I showed up to school one day in the same shirt as a classmate’s and something in me snapped. After that, I prided myself on dressing “different”. I came back after winter break wearing layers of my dad’s discarded 70’s clothes, mixed with weird pieces I made myself before I really knew how to sew. I may have looked bizarre, I may have been acting out, but I was 100% me. My style has since balanced into a neutral heavy, travel inspired, vintagey-modern, subtly feminine mix. I don’t have a concept of my style. We’ve all seen those “what’s your personal style?” quizzes that only have like 5 outcomes. Why do I have to be categorized, I wonder? Because then I can be put into a target market and advertised to. Please join me in saying a very ladylike “fuck that”.
Don’t let anyone tell you what you want to wear. And the next time you find yourself staring in the window of a Forever 21, watching three cloned girls with ombre dye jobs try on the same dress, you can proudly turn your back because you are trend-proof. You are uncategorizable.
I’ll leave you with this bit of brilliance:
When I ask for a garment of a particular form, my tailoress tells me gravely, “They do not make them so now,” not emphasizing the “They” at all, as if she quoted an authority as impersonal as the Fates, and I find it difficult to get made what I want, simply because she cannot believe that I mean what I say, that I am so rash. When I hear this oracular sentence, I am for a moment absorbed in thought, emphasizing to myself each word separately that I may come at the meaning of it, that I may find out by what degree of consanguinity They are related to me, and what authority They may have in an affair which affects me so nearly; and, finally, I am inclined to answer her with equal mystery, and without any more emphasis of the “They” – “It is true, they did not make them so recently, but they do now.”
-Henry David Thoreau, Walden
Now go change into something “weird”. If you feel like it.
After leaving Tucson last summer, I spent the rest of 2012 willfully unemployed and drifting from coast to coast and back again. The thirst I had to peer into America’s windows had been left unquenched by the Taco Yacht‘s untimely demise, and since the sampler platter lifestyle requires nothing much besides mobility, I continued on my quest to do not much of anything in lots of different places.
Before I began a ramblin’, I had certain visions of high fashion travel. In these daydreams, I was always perfectly coifed or topped with a smart vintage cloche. My two darling little bags were light as air and held everything I could ever need.
I kept my fastidiously chosen clothing rolled in neat little complimentary hued fabric burritos to prevent wrinkles and owned one pair of the most comfortable heels ever made, which never broke and went with everything. I was always on time to catch my train. I never spilled coffee down the front of my dress or in my own shoes. My back never ached. I never got caught in a subway turnstile because of my frayed luggage or locked out of a subway turnstile with my frayed luggage inside. My daydream was dreamy.
Cut to reality. Nothing is in soft focus, unless due to smog. I, frizzy of hair and weak of arm, am running in a pair of slippery boots to catch a bus that might not be the one I need. Three of my unwieldy bags are bursting with clothing I don’t like, one is stuffed with shoes I haven’t worn in two weeks, and the needle from the sewing kit in my purse is continuously stabbing me in the hip. I call upon my spirit animal, the mule, for guidance. He does not hear me.
I’d spent months like this, stressed and exhausted and always in transit. I realized at one point that I’d been wearing the same pair of jeans and grey sweater for a week straight. I didn’t care about fashion anymore. This may sound like a frivolous non-problem, but when I use the word fashion, I don’t mean it in the consumer sense. The issue was not that I didn’t feel like shopping or perusing clothing catalogues, but that my sense of self expression was faltering. I was exhausted. I didn’t feel like creating. I didn’t feel like myself.
The problem wasn’t exhaustion, though. It wasn’t that I missed my friends or that I was carrying too many suitcases, and it wasn’t even my extreme lack of funds. Sure, these things were frustrating, but there was something else wrong, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe I just wasn’t cut out for vagabonding? Even though these aimless couchsurfing spells I’m so prone to are something I crave, I seemed to be terrible at them. I would always set out expecting to feel the freedom of the wind at my back, and instead end up filled with existential crises I couldn’t solve.
After nearly six months of ritual sacrifices to equus mulus, I decided to attempt a sort of settling down. I made it to LA, acquired three different jobs, and started spending a lot of time with my new best friend, The Bus. Now I have a guaranteed place to lay my head at night (after I spend several hours with my best friend), and I can even afford lunch sometimes! But I have to wear a uniform to work, and I’m constantly trekking from my house in Highland Park to my jobs in West Hollywood to a certain gentleman’s residence in Marina Del Rey, hefting clothes and shoes and my laptop back and forth and running to catch a bus that might not be the one I need. So not a lot has changed.
HOWEVER. Something new does seem to be happening. A stirring in my loins, if you will. (Will you? Please?)
It came upon suddenly during a rare day off last week. I was at my new house, unpacking my rediscovered decorative and literary treasures that my mother was kind enough to bring from Arizona. Surrounded once more by these relics, I felt for the first time since last Spring, a sense of calm. This room was mine. For as long as I wanted it. Mine to fill with mementos, create art in, read and play music in. The wall to wall closet was mine to fill.
I’ve finally figured out what I was lacking during my travels. It is a specific luxury, but not in the monetary sense. It is the luxury of solitude, of stillness. Of comfortably closed eyes. Though it is a thing that can be touched on in many places (on a blanket in the grass, on an evening jog), to truly be enveloped in it one must have a sanctuary. A place to be alone with complete jurisdiction over one’s surroundings. A solitary peace. Without that, how do we have the chance to reflect? To appreciate? To daydream?
Solitude is definitely attainable on the road, but room of one’s own (if I may borrow that phrase from you, Virginia), is the greatest luxury I can currently imagine. Mine may be void of furniture, my books may be stacked on the floor, I may be sleeping on nothing but a folded in half memory foam pad, but I feel a calmness there. I finally have a place to set down those heavy, frayed bags at the end of the day. And that is nothing short of heaven.
As I’ve mentioned before, I used to be a bit of a jewelry fiend (read: I piled it on all at once like there was no tomorrow). But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve gradually become aware of this thing called subtlety. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. Turns out, one mindblowingly entrancing bauble is far superior to an overflowing treasure chest bursting out out of the seams of your human costume.
It’s quality versus quantity, friends. Nuance versus exaggeration. But that doesn’t mean that your statement piece need be simple. Why not quench your desire to overindulge with just one dazzler?
It’s like ordering a single luxurious piece of velvety macadamia nut cheesecake instead of drunkenly gorging yourself on three bags of leftover Halloween candy and waking up on the living room floor at 5am under a blanket of crumpled shame wrappers with rainbow all over your face.
My point is, look at this jewelry!
Gemstones win the subtle/striking vote because they manage to accomplish MISSION:SHMANCY without looking fake. I want to pair those genuine emerald earrings with a strapless dress to show off my also not fake décolletage.
Lovely lady lumps indeed!
I write this as a tribute to the Atlantic City in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy. My thoughts are with the East Coasters I love, those whose magic paths I crossed, those strangers whose eyes have ever absently caught mine for a brief still moment, those Alley Cat Allies cats who live under the boardwalk.
Atlantic City and I have always had an unspoken romance.
And one sided.
But after twenty-nine years of daydreaming, I awoke October 20th in a cushy queen bed in the Trump Plaza Hotel with a mighty hangover and fuzzy neon memories of the night before, of Atlantic City’s seedy streets unobscured by an underbelly.
Amber and I had ventured into the World’s Favorite Playground the evening before. On the drive I told her of my unfounded longing for AC, spurred only by an early childhood love of the song Under the Boardwalk by The Drifters.
It’s such a lazy summer song, but the tone in the chorus sounds like a warning.
UNDER THE BOARDWALK.
It sounds dangerous, like a gang straight out of The Outsiders is standing waiting for you, and as you approach, they all draw their switchblades in time to the word “WALK”. Either that or a shark’s fin is circling you in the sand.
But really, the song isn’t about much. You’re out of the sun, having some fun, and making love while tourists walk overhead, which I suppose is dangerous in its own way. I always loved the simplicity of the scene it evoked, and saw it in pastels. A girl in gingham, eyes closed, lips parted. Her hair in perfect pin curls. Her lover is tanned, handsome. Tiny stripes of sunlight from between the boards above them dash across bare skin. They are holding their poses like mannequins, softly awaiting a directive that will allow them to resume their caresses. But this is my daydream, and I want to pause it here for eternity, let nothing change, let these lovers never part, let the sun never set.
So basically I figured that in Atlantic City, it is always the 1950’s.
This assumption, I’m afraid, faded upon our arrival. We piped the song via youtube through the car stereo on repeat, 2012ing the shit out of it as we pulled into one of the multilevel parking structures at Trump Plaza.
What followed was several hours of sensory overload: a flurry of flashing lights, dings rings and bells, cheap drinks, free drinks, giant buddhas, racist slot machines, hot wings, felafels, more drinks, walls of dollar bills, fountains, strippers, and so much more.
As we walked arm in arm down a windy street, a gentleman suggested his friend “get those girls”, to which his friend replied, “Dude, I don’t have any money.”
I had a secondary modern daydream of winning big on the penny slots, maybe buying us a couple of diamond rings, but alas, at our best we cashed out with $.04.
So upon waking the next morning, I resigned myself to the fact that Atlantic City’s boardwalk is, just as I was told, a quainter Vegas with a real beach. At least now I knew. At least I was no longer living a lie.
We made our way down to the hotel pool, where we swam and discussed Singing in the Rain and the nature of love vs. self-preservation. At some point during this conversation, it became the 1980’s and we smoked imaginary Virginia Slims as we gazed out at the ocean through the floor to ceiling windows.
We glanced around and decided it was the 1920’s as well.
Venturing out onto the boardwalk in the October sun only fed our time travel greed, and by the time we made our way under the boardwalk to snap some photos, the fact that we were youtubing the song again was inconsequential, as the 50’s had overtaken me. A singular iPhone was no match for this desaturated seaside dreamland.
As if to show us we were doing something right, the song came on of it’s own accord minutes later, streaming through the House of Blues speakers as we stood beneath them, and I soaked up my little present from the universe. Not a week later, a Spanish-language version blessed my ears in a NYC taqueria, and last night in Marina del Rey, CA, a live band played the song as the reunited Taco Yacht Pleasure Crew gobbled down several metric tons of seafood.
Yep, I finally made it to LA. And as long as The Drifters surprise serenade me weekly, I’m going to assume that I’m right where I should be.